


In the Court of the Beggar King

by pippen2112



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Bondage, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Felix | Isaac Gates Being a Dick, Finger Sucking, Knives, M/M, Rope Bondage, Subspace, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 11:09:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16474421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: Rolling his eyes, Gates presses the knife more firmly to his neck. "Think you can handle being on the business end of a blade, Sammy?  For the sake of the show?"And there’s the crux of it.  No matter how much he might dislike Gates, Sam knows he owes the circus a lot for taking in a runaway with no notoriety or skill to his name.  And more than that, he wants to be a part of the show.  The Beggar King’s act is a big draw, and if it doesn’t play, they run the risk of an unhappy, unruly crowd driving them out of town.Eyes narrowing at Gates’s overt dare, Sam draws up to his full height and leans in. He ignores the knife biting into his skin as he doubles down and cranes into Gates's face.  Gates balks ever so slightly and twitches the knife backward to make room for him. "Takes more than a prima donna with a bad attitude and a knife to scare me."





	In the Court of the Beggar King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ConfessionForAnotherTime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConfessionForAnotherTime/gifts).



> This story was written for the lovely confessionforanothertime who kept poking me about writing a circus AU since I watched Greatest Showman last year. This is by no means a Greatest Showman AU, but that was absolutely what got my mind on the circus.
> 
> I marked this fic dubious consent and rape/noncon just in case. Locus drops into subspace while performing and does not have the ability to consent to the events that follow, but he does enjoy himself and doesn't think of what happened as rape.
> 
> If I missed any tags, please let me know and I will fix it :)

"Hey, you're the new guy. Samuel, right?"

Sam looks up from the mucking out the elephant cages. A woman with bright red hair stands at the entrance, petite but strong. Tight, bright clothes cling to her muscled arms and thighs, aqua and black stage makeup painted on her face. She’s one of the acrobats; he's seen her around the fairgrounds, has even stumbled into her during rehearsals. 

Even though she seems at ease in her skin tight costume, Sam turns his gaze away. His mother taught him to be respectful. "Just Sam," he corrects.

"You're not a part of any act, right?"

"No, ma’am."

He’s only been with the circus a few months now, pitching the tents, cleaning up after the animals, tending to whatever part of the carnival grounds needs attention. It’s been hard work, there’s no denying, but in a few months he’s seen more of the country than he had in all his life. Now, they’re set down just outside New York City, on their way to Canada. 

Truth be told, none of this is what he expected when he hopped aboard the train for the Chorus Circus when it came through his hometown, but if he stayed another second in that little Texas hamlet, he’d have torn his hair out from boredom. At least with the circus, every day is something different. Something special. If only the ex-sergeant responsible for the work hands would stop side-eyeing him like he’s going to run off with a wrench.

The woman plants her hands on her hips and gives him an appraising once-over. He shudders, suddenly acutely aware of his tattered, sweat-soaked clothes. His mother never would have let him leave the house in something so ragged. But it's hardly wise wearing his Sunday best to clear out elephant, tiger, and horse shit. It’s not like he has all that many outfits to spare.

"How old are you?" she asks, her eyes narrowing around him.

"Nineteen, ma’am." He could say he’s a few years older than he actually is, he's plenty yall enough, but lying has never been his strong suit.

"That the truth?"

He glances up sharply, pulling back his shoulders and standing to his full height. "Yes, ma’am."

She gives him a jerky nod. "Come with me."

He flinches toward the cage opening, his hand wrapped tight around the pitchfork. His eyes flit from the acrobat to the still messy cage that needs to be clean before the end of the opening act. 

She huffs, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. "You wanna keep mucking out cages until your forty? Fine. But no one joins the circus because they want to spend their lives cleaning up animal shit." Every word she speaks carries authority beyond her years. Beyond her experience. “If you want a shot at actually stepping foot in the ring, come with me.”

Hope tightens around his throat. Stupid, fragile hope. Sam leans the pitchfork against the wall of the train car, stumbling over the cage bars in his haste.

The acrobat leads him across the backstage area. Past the makeshift kitchen tent where the clowns are gathered, one of them bickering with the cook about sneaking some chow before showtime. Past the ringmaster's office and up to the medic's tent. At the tent flaps, the acrobat signals for him to stop then pushes inside. 

Sam steps to the side, shuffling foot to foot. As he waits, he can’t help craning his ear toward the tent.

"Dammit Isaac, what were you thinking?" The ringmaster, Kimball.

"Don’t blame him, ma'am. It was an accident," comes a deep voice, grunting in pain.

"An accident an hour before the show! We did not need this. We've had enough trouble as is. We can’t afford to cancel so close to show time. Especially not on our first night in the city."

"Is there another act we could bring forward as a set piece?" Asks a man with a clipped British accent, Kimball's business partner. "The triplets perhaps? Or that fellow with the fire whip?" 

"There's not enough time," Kimball replies. “Those acts aren’t ready.”

There's another grunt. "I can perform, Ms. Kimball. I’ve performed through far worse, and this is hardly a mortal wound."

"Absolutely not, Mr. Smith," calls a female voice, quick paced and cheerier than he would expect given the conversation he’s heard from within the tent. "You had a knife inside you, sweetie. You're lucky none of your pretty little organs were damaged in the process. No, you are not moving for at least two days."

"But I--"

"I'd listen to her if I were you Smith," comes a new voice, low and slick like oil.

Sam goes still. He recognizes that voice as one of the big names in the circus, someone he recognized from the few times he’s snuck into the big top to watch some of the acts. Isaac Gates, more commonly known as Felix, the Beggar King. Gates is talented—Sam will give him that—but in the few times they’ve interacted in the last few months, the moment Gates opens his mouth, Sam feels the urge to slug him in the face.

Gates goes on. "We can’t have you getting any more hurt. And the audience won’t be as engaged if you're loopy from morphine. Next time, buddy."

"Yes, Mr. Gates," Smith says glumly.

"Now," Gates continues, "for the show--"

Kimball cuts him off. "—If you think you're getting the full take for half a performance, you are misinformed."

Gates goes quiet. Sam can’t help grinning at the silence. Gates is a bloody prima donna, used to getting his way. He deserves all the ire Kimball gives him.

"If I may," the acrobat finally says, her words steady compared to the riotous voices in the tent. "I think I have a solution."

The tent flap jerks open, and Sam scrambles to stand up straight.

The acrobat leads out a handful of people. First Kimball in her bold blue and gold tailcoat, her top hat propped in the crook of her arm. Then a gentleman with graying blonde hair, a handlebar mustache, and a well-fitted if slightly tattered suit. And last, a short, lanky man, narrow-faced and sharp-eyed, his gaze flitting up from the acrobat’s ass before landing on Sam. Gates. He leers, his eyes roving along Sam’s broad shoulders and tall stature without once meeting his gaze. Sam’s gut squirms in discomfort, but his own bullheadedness keeps him from wrapping his arms across his chest and turning away.

For a long moment, the four of them just stare at him, lone enough his skin crawl. He itches to run for it, but the mustachioed man finally breaks the silence, his accent crisp and his voice a pleasant tenor. “My, you’re a strapping young fellow. What’s your name, good chap?”

"Sam," he says quickly, pointedly ignoring Gates’s leering. "Just Sam."

"Well, Just Sam, we're pleased to have you aboard," the mustachioed man chirps, reaching out and shaking Sam's hand with a warm smile. When he pulls back toward the group, he stage whispers to the others, "Well, he certainly fits the bill."

"He's as tall as Smith, I'll give you that, Carolina," Kimball comments, pursing her lips as she considers him. Though her gaze is shrewd, it’s distanced. Critical. It doesn’t leave him feeling like a piece of meat on the butcher's block. He thanks his lucky stars for that. Kimball half-turns toward the Gates, who has been unusually silent despite his heavy gaze. "It's your call, Isaac."

All too quickly, Sam understands why he’s here. The acrobat, Carolina, picked him to replace Smith in Gates's act. And if Gates is the Beggar King, that makes Smith the stoic man who ends up tied to the circus wheel, a target for the Beggar King’s knife display. An act which ended with Smith in the hospital tent with a knife wound. Unbidden, a shiver creeps up his spine.

And just as quickly, Gates rolls his shoulders back and struts forward into Sam's space. Sam doesn’t break eye contact and squares his own shoulders to meet the threat head on. Gates let's put a small chortle, his gaze rolling over Sam once more. "Alright, Sammy, got a few questions for you first. What’s your experience with knives?"

That chill nestles at Sam's lower back, twitchy and startlingly heated.

He draws a quick breath to steady himself and answers, "I've handled them plenty back home, but I'm in no way expert."

Before he can blink, Gates flips a knife out of his sleeve and in one fluid motion, closes the distance between them and presses the knife up under Sam's chin. One thigh presses flush against his groin. 

Breath caught in his chest, Sam starts to step back to safety, but something about Gates's gaze stills him. Something dark and challenging, daring Sam to pull away. And once again that damn stubborn streak his mother always bemoaned rears its ugly head. He widens his stance, lifts his chin subtly, and holds Gates's gaze. 

"And now?" Gates asks, challenge gleaming in his light brown eyes. Up close, Sam can make out streaks of amber running through the brown and can make out the tiny freckles dotting his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Can feel Gates's breath against his lips. 

Something in his gut squirms, but Sam holds himself firm. Doesn’t blink or flinch or bat an eye. "It’s hardly pleasant."

"If it were pleasant, you wouldn't be getting paid to do it," the acrobat comments.

Gates smirks, his eyes still fixed on Sam. "Speak for yourself, Lina."

“Felix,” Kimball says reprovingly. “Fifty minutes to show time.”

Rolling his eyes, Gates presses the knife more firmly to his neck. "Think you can handle being on the business end of a blade, Sammy? For the sake of the show?"

And there’s the crux of it. No matter how much he might dislike Gates, Sam knows he owes the circus a lot for taking in a runaway with no notoriety or skill to his name. And more than that, he _wants_ to be a part of the show. The Beggar King’s act is a big draw, and if it doesn’t play, they run the risk of an unhappy, unruly crowd driving them out of town.

Eyes narrowing at Gates’s overt dare, Sam draws up to his full height and leans in. He ignores the knife biting into his skin as he doubles down and cranes into Gates's face. Gates balks ever so slightly and twitches the knife backward to make room for him. "Takes more than a prima donna with a bad attitude and a knife to scare me."

Gates lets out a sharp laugh and pulls away his knife. “Oh, yeah. He’ll do.” He pockets the knife and strides off toward the big top. “He’ll do just fine.”

#

Sam paces backstage, a blanket draped over his shoulders, squirming at every step as he tries to adjust to these trousers. They’re infernally tight. Obscenely tight. The-circus-tailor-had-to-cut-Smith’s-spare-pair-at-the-hips-and-sew-him-into-them tight. He clutches at the blanket, closing his eyes and willing himself to suddenly become comfortable with this level of undress. Come showtime, he’ll have to strut out on stage next to Gates, bare chested for the audience’s entertainment. 

His stomach clenches, but Sam forces himself to breathe through the discomfort. He agreed to this. For as irritating as Gates may be, his act draws a big crowd, and the circus needs good word of mouth, especially on their first night in town. He only needs to steady his nerve and follow through.

“Here.” 

Gates’s voice cuts through the backstage commotion. By some miracle, Sam doesn’t jump at his surprise. Slowly, he turns. 

Gates is dressed in his costume for Felix, the Beggar King. His twisted, tarnished crown is propped in the crook of his right arm, and a ragged orange cloak hangs over his lanky figure, the hint of black and gray harlequin tights and narrow black boots visible under the hem. Sam remembers when he was just a spectator when the circus came to his home town, the first time he saw the knife throwing act. He knows that nestled within the folds of that cloak are dozens of knives, each of which Gates will be flinging at him in short order. Sam steels himself against the urge to flea. Too late for that now. But what surprises him most is the dark bottle Gates holds toward him, unstoppered and only half-full. He shoots a pointed glance between Gates and the bottle, his brow furrowing.

Gates rolls his eyes, his entire body moving with the gesture. “Look, it’s not poison or anything. Just a little booze to steady the pre-show jitters.”

Sam frowns before he can stop himself.

“What, never had a drink to calm your nerves before?”

“That hardly seems relevant.”

“Sammy, bud,” Gates says before taking a pull from the bottle, his throat bobbing heavily as he swallows, “you’ve gotta learn how to unclench. Can’t have you flinching into a hit just ‘cause you’re too tightly wound.”

As Gates starts to take another drink, Sam lurches forward and snatches the bottle out of his hands. When Gates arches a brow at him, Sam replies, "Can’t have you aiming poorly because you overindulged."

Gates laughs, a bitter little sound. There's something about his tightened gaze Sam doesn’t trust, not completely, but he's in no position to protest. "Wow,” Gates says, drawing out the syllable, “you really don't like me."

"I don’t have to like you."

But when he glances back at Gates, his eyes are distant; Sam can practically hear the wheels in his mind ticking. Somehow, that only makes him more uncomfortable.

"Y'know," Gates says after a long moment of consideration, "we could use that."

Sam tenses. "Use what?"

"All that restless aggression you're holding. Smith used to take the noble approach before he got strapped to the target, but I don’t see that working for a strapping young buck like you. Not for a couple years, anyway."

Sam glares, pointedly ignoring the pulse of warmth in his stomach. He can deal with that later. Or never. Never works.

"But see,” Gates says as he saunters up to him, his free hand trailing over Sam’s shoulder for a second before Sam jerks away. “You've got antagonism rolling off you. Buckets of it. Most performers take ages to work up that kind of raw emotion, and you’re just drowning in it.” He pauses, sidling around behind Sam and murmuring. “The crowd would eat that shit with a spoon."

The crowd. The audience. The people who pay for the food in his belly and who keep their train running. Loathe as he is to admit it, Gates knows what he’s doing; he’s a professional, has been with Chorus since its inception, Sam’s heard. For as much as Sam disdains him, Gates is right. 

Exhaling heavily, Sam lifts the bottle and drinks deeply. "What do you have in mind?"

When he lowers the bottle, Gates is smirking. Sam’s gut jolts. Somehow, he suspects he’s going to hate this.

#

The audience cheers as the acrobats take their final bows and quickly clear away their props. The crowd titters anxiously, ready for the next act, eager to see this fabled Beggar King. The barkers spent all day telling tales of his daring, rousing the rabble to come see the spectacle in the big top. Munching on popcorn and caramel apples, the crowd goes quiet as the lights flicker out one by one, until only a single spotlight remains, now fixed on the performer’s entry curtain.

A drum-roll sounds through the tent, the tension swelling, and before the crowd expects it, a man in a thorny crown pokes his head out of the curtain, stage makeup dark around his eyes, his mouth twisted into a knowing smirk. Felix, the Beggar King. 

“Well, that’s a fine crowd. New York, welcome!” A cheer goes through the crowd, energy building. “A whole lotta smiling faces looking in on my kingdom tonight. It’s good you all showed up when you did because I found a new plague befalling my kingdom. A plague of locusts come to feed on our finery. A would-be thief.”

Felix pushes aside the curtain, strides into the ring dragging someone behind him. A young man with long dark hair and tight fitted breeches. He scrambles after Felix, hissing each time the king tugs his hair. 

The crowd gasps and boos when Felix comes to stop in the middle of the ring and drops the young thief at his feet. The thief pushes onto his hands and knees, ready to rise and fight, but Felix pulls his head back by his hair and kneels behind the thief, the image of a cat who caught the canary. He calls to the audience, “Well, what do you think, all you lovely lords and ladies? Shall we show him how the Beggar King responds to thievery?”

Another cheer surges through the big top.

Without further sign, the stage hands pull out a battered, red and white striped wheel, and Felix yanks the thief toward it. The thief struggles against Felix’s sure grip, but all too quickly he’s muscled against the wheel and ropes bind him.

At the back of the ring, the Beggar King kneels and quickly checks the ties. With his back to the crowd, he takes in the thief’s quick-rising chest, the faint flush coloring his cheeks. “Relax, bud,” he mutters, shooting a quick grin up at the thief. “Don’t you trust me?”

The thief huffs, his eyes still fixed on the crowd. “Do I have a choice in the matter?”

Felix chuckles. “Good answer.”

Without another word, the Beggar King turns back to the crowd. He struts across the ring and spreads his arms, letting the cloak fall open and reveal the multitude of knives sheathed in the folds. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s begin.”

#

Sam is melting. Bit by bit, his consciousness is falling away. He’s only distantly aware of the nervous energy pulsing under his skin. Of the crowd jeering beyond the edges of the spotlight. Of the ropes wrapped around his limbs and torso, tethering him to the target wheel. His head feels heavy on his shoulders, but he keeps his eyes open and his head held high.

Across the ring, Gates is strutting through the spotlight, teasing the crowd, and preening like a peacock. He’s facing the audience, performing knife tricks for the audience, eating up their attention. Not paying Sam the slightest thought.

Before he can stop himself, Sam strains forward against the ropes. They dig into his arms at his wrists, elbows, and shoulders, his legs at ankle, knee, and thigh, thoroughly pinning him to the wheel. He can’t budge so much as an inch, and his heart pounds at the realization. Rationally, he knows that’s a good thing, that the ropes are there for his safety, but every time they pull against his skin, something foggy descends over his mind. Something strange and peaceful and unlike anything he’s experienced before. He’s not so sure he likes it, but all he can do is stay here, look pretty for the audience, and let the ropes hold him.

A flourish of orange and gold glimmering under the spotlight catches his attention. Despite the haze clouding his mind and the distance across the ring, Sam can see Gates clearly. The sweat darkening his hairline. The steadiness of his hand as he idly flips his knife. The sharpness of his gaze, focused entirely on Sam, not so much as batting an eyelash. Like there’s no one in the big top but Sam.

Something in his gut turns warm and soupy. A shiver runs down his spine, but he doesn’t have the leeway to react to it. Not that he wants to react to it. Not even a little. Staying stubbornly silent, Sam bites his tongue and holds Gates’s gaze. He won’t give him an inch, not even if—

— _Thunk!_

He jolts out of his thoughts, head snapping to his left to find a knife embedded in the wheel just above his arm. He hadn’t even realized Gates was about to throw. Sam blinks back to Gates but finds he’s already spun around to the crowd, trying to rouse more applause.

“Come on, ladies and gentleman! Look at that hit. An single knife, and he’s already sweating.”

 _Ass._ Stubbornness rising despite the warmth flickering through his core, Sam pulls his mouth closed and faces forward. He takes a deep breath to settle his thumping heart. It’s only an act. Gates knows what he’s doing. This won’t last long. Sam can do this. He lets out a long breath, tugs against the restraints for show, and waits.

“Let’s see if maybe—”

Mid-word, Gates turns on heel and sends another knife sailing toward him. It thunks into the wood just under his right forearm.

“—we can make him sweat some more.”

By some miracle, Sam doesn’t flinch. He keeps his eyes steady and his chin tipped up in defiance. Gates’s eyes tighten, narrowing around him. Sam doesn’t grin, but he feels it burn in his chest. Before he can blink, another blade flies at him at lodges just above Sam’s left thigh.

His throat tightens, suddenly lightheaded as the fog descends a little lower over him. Everything beyond the spotlight fades to black. The audience, and the big top, and the other performers all disappear; only he and Gates remain. Gates with his harsh gaze and snippy comments and wirey strength. Even with the cloak draped over his shoulders, Sam can see the power in his arms each time he throws a knife, the precision honed by years of practice. It’s—

A knife lands just below his thigh, close enough the broad side presses against his leg. 

—It’s intoxicating watching him move.

Gates turns back to the crowd, probably taking suggestions for his next target, but Sam can’t hear anything over his heart pounding in his ears. Can’t focus on anything beyond Gates’s fluid, moving figure and the dulled thunk of knives sinking into the target all around him. 

He blinks and finds Gates suddenly in his face, pulling knives out of the target, pressing so close Sam can feel the warmth radiating off him. Can smell him. There’s a line knitted between his eyebrows, but beyond that small sign of concentration, his body is loose and limber. His gaze flashing. His smirk sharp enough to cut. 

Using the guise of gathering his knives, Gates stoops and checks Sam’s bonds once more. “You don’t give an inch, do you Sammy?” he asks quietly, breaking the silence between them.

Sam opens his mouth to respond, but his mouth is too dry to form words. His attention both concentrated on the man before him and scattered to the wind. When he doesn’t respond, Gates glances up at him, brow arched in question. All he can do is stare back, painfully aware of his own awkwardness.

When Gates retrieves the knife from between his legs, the back of his hand presses against Sam’s groin. An unconscious gasp wells in his chest; before it meets the air, Sam bites it back. But for a split second, Gates goes still in front of him, frozen midway through returning the knife to its sheath in the cloak. When he looks up again, there’s a knowing glint in his eye, and Sam feels like his trousers constrict.

“You know, ladies and gentlemen,” Gates calls as he turns back toward the audience. “I don’t think the typical punishment will be enough for a thief like this. I think he needs a little more incentive. Something to scare him back to the straight and narrow.” Gates nods somewhere offstage, and a few stage hands hurry into the ring, taking positions behind the wheel. “Let's make it interesting, shall we?”

As Gates retreats back across the ring, Sam strains against the bindings; Gates throws one quick glance over his shoulder, and Sam stills. _For the show. For the show._

And then the wheel turns, carrying him ‘round and ‘round in a steady circle. Sam’s stomach lurches at the motion. His body shifts, the ropes cutting into him to hold him against gravity, and warmth spreads through him, willing him to keep his eyes open and his gaze fixed on the orange cloaked king in his thorny crown as knife after knife fly toward him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, barely breathes. Even when the last knife lands next to his neck and the crowd cheers and something warm wells against his skin, Sam just keeps his eyes on Gates as the world spins around him.

#

Per usual, Isaac finishes the knife act with a round of knife tricks, spinning them over his fingers and throwing them in the air to mystify the audience. When he snatches the last knife out of the air, the crowd erupts into applause. Isaac’s chest swells. He soaks in all the praise as he takes his bows alone. God, he’s great at this. Great at playing to the crowd. Great with his knives. He’s glad the audience is just as aware as he is.

As he slinks backstage, he shrugs off the heavy, itchy cloak and the thorny crown, ready to make a beeline to the campfire for a hot meal and a warm body to rub against. God, performing gets him in the mood to fuck. The lights. The danger. The applause. Thankfully, the cloak more than masked his erection while on stage. Now, well, no one in the circus care if he’s sporting a stiffy.

But Isaac stops short when he comes around the corner and finds the stage hands helping the new guy off the wheel. Sam, but he’s got none of the rigid aggression he was sporting before the show. His head is lolled forward, his shoulders are lax, and he stumbles forward like he’s half asleep. The stage hands manhandling him off the wheel, one or two of them stooping to talk to him, but Sam doesn’t respond. His hair falls in his face, loose from Isaac dragging him onto the stage. A shiver races down his spine. Oh, the crowd had eaten it up, but if he wants to experience that kind of reaction again, he needs Sam willing and able to perform.

Isaac weaves through the backstage, through performers in various stages of dress and undress. As he approaches the stagehands and Sam, he lets his footfalls land a little heavier, and loops one of Sam’s big, beefy arms over his shoulders. “Easy there, buddy,” he says, shooting the stagehand a quick nod. “I’ll take care of him.”

Without waiting for a response, Isaac steers Sam away from the backstage area, out of the big top, and over toward the campfire. The night hangs over them, dark and cool save for the flickering warmth emanating from the bonfire. Sam moves sluggishly against him, just barely making his legs work. “C’mon, Sammy,” Isaac says. “I gotta carry you outta the show too? Sheesh, you’re a big boy. Bigger than you look.” He glances down at the front of Sam’s indecently tight pants and his hefty bulge. “Bigger down there too, huh?” _Maybe that’ll get a rise out of him._

Instead of shooting back some scathing rebuttal, Sam groans.

_Oh fuck, don’t let him be backing out on me. The act is too good now._

Isaac moves them off to the side behind one of the nearby tents and pulls Sam to a stop. With barely a word, Sam drops to his knees. Isaac curses under his breath and crouches in front of Sam, one hand wrapping around his long, thick hair and using it to tip back his head.

Eyelids falling closed, Sam opens his mouth and lets out a moan. An honest to god, freshly fucked out and aching for another round moan. Isaac’s eyes bulge, and his cock pulses against his tights. Fuck, what is he doing, getting aroused when his show partner is suddenly unresponsive? He’s worked with his fair share of partners perfecting his act, and none of them ever had such an extreme reaction to being tied up and spun around on stage.

Fear thick and sour at the back of his throat, Isaac pats his cheeks. “Sammy. Sammy, open your eyes.”

Sam furrows his brow before slowly blinking open his eyes. Even lit by the distant campfire, Isaac can see Sam’s pupils are blown wide. Worryingly wide. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.” Isaac quickly checks Sam for injuries. Raw red circles his wrists and forearms from the ropes, but they’re only mildly worse than he’s seen on Smith after a show. A few days and those marks will be healed. He tips Sam’s head to the side, and his fingers come away glossy red. “Double fuck.” That last knife. He thought he’d gone wide enough with his aim. Clearly not. Isaac cranes down for a closer look, but thankfully, the cut is shallow and clean. A bandage will do the trick. 

_Wouldn’t have needed a bandage if you were paying better attention. You’re a professional, dammit. But fuck, is he bigger than he looks._

Just as he pulls away, Sam lolls his head back toward him. Isaac catches a quick glint in Sam’s eyes before he laps at the bright blood on his fingers and sucks them into his mouth. The breath sticks in his chest. He’s powerless but to watch as his fingers disappear between those plush lips, and yeah, his cock likes that. A lot. A shiver runs down his spine as Isaac swells in his tights, cock responding to all the attention Sam gives his fingers. Bless him, Sam even lets out a quiet little keen. _Shit, he’s doing more for my fingers than some people have done for my cock._

He should stop this. He’s acutely, painfully aware of that fact. Something got Sam riled, and if Isaac were any type of decent, he’d get Sam back to his bunk and let him sleep off this… whatever the fuck this is. But having this stubborn stick in the mud carney on his knees and laving his fingers like they’re the best dick he’s ever tasted is heady. Something in his chest somersaults with all the power at his fingertips. And then those big brown eyes fix up on him, hungry and pleading. Fuck, “heady” hardly covers it. Suddenly, he feels like he’s back in the ring. Charming. Powerful. Beloved. Like a real king instead of a pauper playing pretend.

Before he can think better of it, Isaac stands up but keeps his fingers pressed to Sam’s lips. With another wanting whimper from deep in his throat, Sam bobs down on him, sucking him deeper and deeper. Idly, Isaac palms himself, giving himself a quick squeeze to sate his growing need. Without missing a beat, Sam follows his motions, eyes lidded as he lets out another moan and licks as far across Isaac’s palm as he can reach.

Isaac swallows hard until he can find his voice. “You want something, Sammy?” he asks, breathless but still teasing. “Want something else to choke on?”

Whimpering, Sam nods.

Another shiver rolls down his spine, settling between his hips. He stifles the urge to rock his hips against his palm, but only just. “You want my cock, then you better prove just how much.”

Groaning, Sam grabs Isaac’s wrist to hold him steady. His eyes flutter closed, and he sinks as far as he can onto Isaac’s fingers, far enough he makes himself gag. Isaac freezes, his hand perilously still as he feels Sam’s throat quivering against his fingertips. Sam pulls back just enough to catch his breath, shoots Isaac a glazed look of determination, and gags himself again. And again.

The motherfucker doesn’t stop, and he’s a goddamn vision while doing it.

Palming himself idly, Isaac focuses on Sam. His lust-crazed expression. The breathy sounds of want that get punched out of his chest. The wet flutter of his lips on Isaac. Fuck, how easy would it be to ruck down his tights and give Sam exactly what he wants. To fuck the stick out of his ass and leave him pliant and needy. But that’s too easy. After all the shit Sam has given him since he came on board the circus, Isaac thinks he can let him suffer. Just a little longer.

Instead, he changes his stance and pushes one of his feet between Sam’s spread thighs, nestling the toe of his boot right up against Sam’s groin. And fuck, those trousers look ready to tear as they strain to contain his hard-on. Sam lets out a muffled noise as his hips grind forward haphazardly, but before he can work of a rhythm, he stops short, his eyes flitting back up to Isaac, wide and pleading.

Isaac smirks and presses a little more firmly against him. “Well, you better get to it. My leg’s not gonna hump itself.”

With a long, loud moan, Sam does as he’s told. His hips lurch forward, grinding hard against Isaac, hard enough he nearly topples over; only Isaac’s determination keeps him upright. Sam whimpers around his fingers, sucking them in time with each rolling thrust. Every movement is sloppy with his need, but Isaac can’t take his eyes off the man on his knees. And Sam doesn’t take his eyes off him, not once even as he starts to fall apart.

Warmth and want pulses through him, his cock twitching against his fly, but his own needs feel distant and peripheral. His focus is fixed on the wanton display below him. By some miracle, he’s managed to keep his mouth closed and his eyes tight instead of gaping like a fish. By some miracle, he holds himself in check because one wrong move, and he’s certain Sam will come back to his senses and punch him in the balls and run for it. And he can’t let that happen, not when he can have those lust-dark eyes gazing up at him, wide and wanting.

He gives himself one last squeeze and moves. He grabs Sam by the hair at the nape of his neck and tips his head back roughly. Sam gazes up at him, his eyes hazy and his pupils dilated. _Fuck, he likes it rough, huh? Let’s test that._ He yanks Sam farther so his entire front is pressed against Isaac’s leg and his neck is bent sharply. Sam sucks in a sharp breath, flickers of awareness coloring his gaze. Isaac forces himself to breath and shakes away his reservations. _Go big or go home, right?_

“Keep thinking about that big cock you want, Sammy. About how it tastes on your tongue. How it feels splitting you open, on and on until you can’t do anything but lie there and take it.” 

Sam moans, tears welling in the corners of his eyes as his tongue flutters against Isaac’s fingers, trying and failing to voice a word. His lips start to move and Isaac nearly forgets to breathe. _Please._ Sam’s trying to beg for it. Ready and willing. Isaac gives his hair a sharp tug and starts thrusting his fingers into Sam’s mouth. 

For a split second, those big eyes blink up to him, surprise breaking through the lust, but Sam reacts quickly, groaning and sucking in earnest.

Isaac smirks. “Keep on imagining all the ways you wanna be wrecked, Sammy. All the ways you want me to wreck you.” Another gagging moan interrupts him, but Isaac can only be so bothered by that. “Now, be a good boy and come for me, and maybe next time I’ll wreck you like you want.”

Sam groans so long and loud, Isaac jumps. Fuck, the whole camp probably heard that one, but no one bursts through the darkness to interrupt them. There’s only Sam, humping his leg hard and fast and unrelenting as he chases his pleasure. As he opens his mouth wide and lets Isaac gag him on his fingers. God, Sam must fuck like a beast; Isaac’s mouth goes dry at the thought. 

Sam’s hips stutter against his leg, tension rippling through his body. Isaac gives his hair one last tug, and with a moan, Sam spills and goes limp. Isaac just barely gets an arm around him before he collapses. Carefully, Isaac settles Sam down on the ground and pulls his fingers free. If Sam chases after them for a second, well, that’s an image Isaac will file away for a cold, lonely night. Instead, he runs a steady hand through Sam’s hair, pushing it out of his face and shushes his rapid, thin breaths. His cock throbs against his thigh, impatient for release, but if Sam was out of it before, he’s even worse now. So Isaac stand between him and the rest of the world, waiting as Sam comes back to himself.

 _Maybe with a few more fucks, we can dislodge that stick up his ass._ Isaac grins at his thought. He’d never admit it out loud, but when he’s not scowling, Sam’s got a look he can appreciate.

The moment the thought crosses Isaac’s mind, Sam tenses. He pushes himself upright, blinking from his position snuggled up with his forehead resting against Isaac’s thigh down to the obscenely tight trousers that must be growing uncomfortable now that he’s come in them and finally up to Isaac. A flurry of emotions cross his face, too many for Isaac to make sense of, before Sam drops his gaze and sucks in another sharp breath.

“Take it slow, Sam,” Isaac says, for once choosing to not aggravate him. “You were pretty out of it.”

A faint flush colors Sam’s cheeks. He turns away, staring down at his knees, his hands fisting against his thighs. With an long exhale, Sam starts to stand.

Rolling his eyes, Isaac offers a hand. “C’mon, I’ll help you to your tent.”

Sam shoots him a glare.

“Look don’t get me wrong, you look great on your knees; but you look like you could do with a good night’s sleep or you’ll be shit for tomorrow’s matinee.”

Grumbling under his breath, Sam takes his hand and lets Isaac help him upright. His knees quiver under him, but he doesn’t topple. As Isaac wraps an arm around his waist and leads Sam off toward the tents, Sam mutters, “Don’t count on that happening again.”

But Isaac can feel Sam’s heartbeat thundering through his entire body, hard and fast with poorly veiled interest. He smirks. “We’ll see.”

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, and concrit welcome. Come scream with me on Tumblr (birdsbeesandlemonadetrees.tumblr.com)


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